


Pursuit of Happiness

by PetePepsi



Series: Post-SQUIP Stories [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Christine/Jeremy is mentioned but not expanded upon, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jeremy has scars from the SQUIP, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Post-Canon, Scars, Trans Jeremy Heere, also Jeremy is trans and there's nothing you can do about it, so spoilers for that, this contains a lot of broadway-exclusive references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 05:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetePepsi/pseuds/PetePepsi
Summary: Things are weird, after the SQUIP gets deactivated.Weird is the only way Jeremy can explain it. Things aren't bad; Jeremy's dad has started stepping up around the house, Jeremy and Christine went on their first real date (with, hopefully, a lot more to come), and him and Michael have never been closer.But things aren't really great, either. Jeremy's still facing difficulty making his own decisions (who knew having a malevolent supercomputer control your life would screw up your autonomy), he's not sure how to face his new "friends" now that their shared trauma is growing further and further from their minds, and then there's the grey oblong elephant in the room: his SQUIP isn't really gone.





	Pursuit of Happiness

Jeremy's in the middle of his math homework when his dad knocks on his bedroom door.

"You can—uh—you can come in," Jeremy says, and feels himself brace for an oncoming electric shock. He stuttered – he's not supposed to stutter. _It's_ going to…

Jeremy lets out a sigh, the tension escaping his shoulders. _It's not going to do anything_ , he reminds himself. _It's gone._ His SQUIP is gone. He's still getting used to saying that.

 **_Am_ ** **I gone, Jeremy?**

He ignores that thought, and his dad enters, carrying a half-filled laundry basket.

“Hey kiddo.” He sets the basket on the floor, sliding it in front of Jeremy’s closet. “I was starting some laundry and, uh, you left a load in the washer. I finished it up for you.”

“Oh,” Jeremy breathes out. He barely even remembered loading it. It was probably just from habit; his SQUIP had put him on a consistent laundry schedule, which was basically muscle memory at this point. He guesses he'd distracted himself and forgot.

"Figured you had enough on your plate," his dad continues. "Didn't want you to be worried about laundry, of all things."

"Yeah, th—thanks," and he gives his dad a rehearsed smile. It isn't like he's not happy that his dad did laundry – in fact, he's ridiculously happy that his dad's making progress. Doing laundry, going into the office to work, even wearing pants is a victory for him. But, he can't push away the idea that—

**It won't last. He'll relapse back into his old ways, and you _know_ it.**

He needs to tell his dad about the SQUIP, eventually. He _needs_ to. It's not fair to keep him in the dark about everything. Especially since it was the reason things were so messed up – that Jeremy is _still_ so messed up. An ecstasy overdose can explain what happened at the play, but it can't explain the way Jeremy jumps whenever an older man says his name. Or the way he flinches whenever he stutters, or slouches, or thinks about sex or Michael or X-Men or anything he's not _supposed_ to think about.

His dad smiles back at him. "Well, I'm gonna get back to it." He flashes Jeremy a quick thumbs up and starts to close the door, but he stops. He peeks his head back through and says, "If you need me, I'm right downstairs," and there's a slight tremble in his voice when he says, "Love you, kiddo."

**All of this progress is for nothing. Something will happen, and he'll lose it, all over again.**

"I love you, too, dad."

**You're his son, after all, and look at _you_. Just a family full of failures.**

The door closes, and Jeremy lets his smile fall. He sighs, slumping back in his chair and rubbing the fabric of his jacket between his hands.

He can tell, in these moments, these _quiet_ moments, that the SQUIP is only in his head. It hated his fidgeting. It was one of the first things it made sure to get rid of. If it still had power, it would stop him – shock him until he quit it. But it doesn't. It's just a voice. It's only a voice. And Jeremy's voice is _louder_. At least, that's what he tells himself.

He feels his thumb run over the edge of the patch on his chest. He looks down at it. A blue smiley face, outlined in yellow. It was a gift from Michael – the whole jacket was. An outstretched hand, really. The promise that he wouldn't give up on him, even though what he'd done was _heinous_.

(Michael still has a black eye, from Jeremy's fist colliding with his face at the play. Jeremy remembers that one moment so vividly. His body moving out of his control, the feeling of his knuckles hitting Michael's cheekbone. The sadness and pain in Michael's voice. The ache he felt in his heart that gave him the drive to break the SQUIP's control. He thinks it's funny, now, how he flipped off the SQUIP with the same hand that punched Michael. He remembers how triumphant he felt in the moment. He remembers how it all fell apart. How his SQUIP forced his wrist to twist until it popped. How it masked the pain of that with electric shocks so violent that they left marks on his wrist. A jagged lightning bolt halfway up his forearm. Hopefully it's not permanent.)

**It's a good thing. That ratty old cardigan was too large on you. It made you look ridiculous.**

That "ratty old cardigan" was a gift from his father. After Jeremy came out to him in middle school as, well, _Jeremy_. It had been Jeremy's youngest uncle's back when he was in college. His dad always thought it was the most comfortable-looking coat in the world, and he was right. Even at fifteen years of use, it stayed solid and soft, not even frayed. Jeremy's dad had gotten it in the will.

Jeremy wonders if it's in the laundry basket. He stands up, opting to take a break from algebra to put the clothes away.

He feels a strange kind of sentimentality, looking at them. They're mostly shirts, and mostly ones that the SQUIP had ordered him not to wear, so they've just been sitting at the bottom of his clothes' basket for nearly two months.

He picks up a yellow, blue, and red striped shirt – the shirt he was wearing when he got the SQUIP. He remembered how much it had hated it.

( **Too saturated. It makes you stand out like a fire hydrant, no wonder you're such an easy target.** )

He picks up a Jukebox the Ghost t-shirt that Michael had ordered him "for Hanukkah" the previous year, although it had shown up nearly a month late, so it was really more of a New Year's present.

( **Nobody's heard of that band. Sever your ties to Michael.** )

He picks up a black shirt, with white lettering on it that—

He drops the shirt, reeling away from it, like it's burned him. His heart is pounding out of his chest, his breath picking up. _It's stupid—it's just a shirt! It doesn't matter!_

(But it isn't just a shirt. It's the first shirt the SQUIP made him buy. The first thing the SQUIP ordered him to do. The first act that set everything in motion. He was wearing that shirt when he made out with Brooke. He was wearing that shirt when he optic-nerve-blocked Michael.)

Before he even knows it, he's on the floor, staggered heaving breaths shaking his body. He hears another knock on his door. Not now— _not NOW!_

"Jeremy, are you okay in there?"

Jeremy opens his mouth to speak, but feels himself choke on a sob.

**Pathetic.**

The door creaks open. He hears his dad gasp, and suddenly an arm is around him, a hand massaging his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, I'm right here. It's okay."

And Jeremy lets himself accept his embrace, throwing his arms around his dad, clutching him like a lifeline. He's shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but his dad is steady, massaging circles into the small of his back. He tries to breath in rhythm with the cycle.

**_Pathetic._ **

Seconds pass, or minutes, or maybe an hour – he really can't tell. Eventually, the shivering stops, his breaths steady, and the tears slow. His dad doesn't let go, whispering assurances the whole way through.

Jeremy is the one who pulls away; he looks up at his dad.

"You okay, Jeremy?"

Jeremy take a breath to speak, but can't, shaking his head no.

(An ecstasy overdose can't explain why Jeremy's having a panic attack over an Eminem t-shirt.)

So, he lets the words explode out of him, like a burst dam. He tells his dad everything. Rich, and finding out about the SQUIP, and getting it. The SQUIP making him date Brooke, and blocking Michael, and the party. The _party_ , and the SQUIP forcing him to have sex with Chloe, and yelling at Michael, and Christine rejecting him. The SQUIP's plan, and how Jeremy agreed to it, and Christine talking some sense into him, but Reyes getting the beaker. Everyone getting squipped, Michael coming in to save the day, the SQUIP blocking his vocal cords, making him fight Michael. Punching Michael, breaking the SQUIP's control, giving Christine the Mountain Dew Red. And the screaming, how he thought he was going to die – that _everyone_ was going to die and how it was his fault, all his fault, _all his fault_.

**It's all your fault.**

By the time it's over, Jeremy has no idea how long he's been rambling, only stopping if his dad needed clarification on something. He hadn't even said everything. He'd omitted the SQUIP's punishments, specifically. That was something his dad didn't need to know about. That was something _Michael_ didn't even know about, really. There are tear streaks drying on his face as he stands in front of his dad, sitting idly on his bed. When his dad doesn't respond, Jeremy assumes the worst.

**He thinks you're crazy.**

"You think I'm cra—You think I'm crazy, don't you."

"No, no," his dad assures, standing up. He takes a breath, but hesitates for a few moments before speaking. "Michael. He told me a little bit while you were in the hospital. Nothing really about what had happened, but I'd told him what you'd said when we fought, the day of the play. About the 'pill-sized supercomputer' thing."

Jeremy remembered that. He remembered the SQUIP's disarmingly neutral voice telling him to tell his dad "the truth." He remembers how proudly it looked at him after he snapped at his dad. As if insulting his dad would help things.

**It _worked_ , didn’t it?**

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before,” his dad says. “If I’d known it was a—a cry for help, I…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

**He wouldn’t have done anything.**

“It wasn’t a cry for help, it was…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to explain it, even now he’d probably just collapse under his guilt. How would he even tell him, anyway? “ _No, dad, I actually said that specifically to hurt you. Because the supercomputer in my brain that shocked me every time I thought about jacking off told me to, and I listened to it. I listened to it_.”

Jeremy rubs at his eyes, wiping the remnants of tears from his face. He struggles to speak.

“I’m sorry, this is—This is a lot. To put on you. At once.”

His dad comes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you told me. I’m glad you can be honest with me.”

 _I didn’t want to tell you – I don't want to tell you_ , Jeremy thinks, but he can’t say it out loud, so he just says, “Yeah.”

\---

Jeremy’s sitting in his math class. It’s his first day back from after the play, and Mr. Gretch forces him to take the test he’d missed the previous day.

“I don’t care if you just got back,” Gretch had said. “You were in school while I was teaching this. If you were paying attention, you’ll do fine.”

(He hadn’t been paying attention. He hadn’t needed to. His SQUIP gave him all the answers. Jeremy relied on it in Gretch’s class, especially. He was terrible at math.)

The homework he’d done the previous night doesn't help, but that doesn’t surprise him, especially considering the SQUIP’s constant distracting remarks prodding the back of his mind every time he almost figures out a question. Jeremy opts to guess the answers – it's all multiple choice anyway, hoping to get at least over a 50%.

When the bell rings, Jeremy gives Gretch the quiz and gets himself the hell out of there. His next class is biology, and in biology, he has Michael. He wants to talk to Michael.

Christine meets him as he exits, all smiles and sweetness and “How are you doing today?”

“I failed that test,” Jeremy answers bluntly. “I had—I had no idea what any of the answers were.”

Christine crosses her arms. “Mr. Gretch is an asshole, making you take that on your first day back.” She puts a hand on his arm and smiles at him, fondly. “If you need any help, I could, y’know, tutor you. I’m not amazing at algebra, but…”

“I mean, y’know,” Jeremy chuckles awkwardly, “I need all the help I can get, honestly.”

**Not just in algebra.**

“I haven’t really been—My SQUIP, it did most of the work for me—”

**All of the work.**

“—back when I had it. And now I’m feeling kinda—“

**Stupid for getting rid of me.**

“—lost.”

Christine nods. “Well, the offer still stands.” She suddenly pulls him into a quick, yet crushing, hug. “I’ll see you later!”

Jeremy stops walking, he realizes that he’s in front of his classroom.

Christine walks off, waving back at him. “Text me when you’re available!”

“Y—Yeah. Yeah, I’ll text you.” But by the time he gets the words out, she’s already turned into the next hall.

He idles in front of the door, his face feeling hot. Sometimes he forgets that him and Christine are dating. It’s difficult for him to focus on, really. He's not quite sure why. The idea that they were dating — REALLY dating! Him! And her!

**Thanks to _me_.**

_Right_. Jeremy realizes why he doesn’t think about it. Because every time he does, Keanu needs to give its two cents about the _real_ reasons him and Christine are together. It always has a shit-eating comment to say, _just_ to get on Jeremy's nerves. And Jeremy doesn't like responding to the SQUIP directly, but this time he can't help himself.

"She hates _you_."

**She _pities_ you.**

A small laugh. "Who hates me?"

And Jeremy feels a tap on his arm, and he _reels_ back from the touch, his shoulder hitting the doorframe.

"Hey, it's just me." Michael's familiar image settles in his vision. Red jacket, a black and white tye-dye t-shirt, and those thick brown-rimmed glasses. The glasses mask the swelling around his left eye, somewhat. But not enough, and Jeremy feels a pang of guilt seeing it.

"Oh—uh—Sorry I didn't realize—I—Just—" He pauses, takes a breath, lets it out. "Hi Michael."

"But anyway," Michael puts his hand on Jeremy's arm, continuing the conversation as he leads him into the room, to his seat.

(His _actual_ seat, in the back of the class next to Michael. Not the one his SQUIP forced him to sit in, sandwiched between Jenna and Chloe. Right in the front.)

They sit down, and Michael informs him, "You were talking to, uh…" He taps on his left temple, a gesture that the two of them had silently acknowledged as code for "SQUIP."

"Oh, uh, sorry."

(That was something he did, apparently. Talk to his SQUIP out loud without realizing it. Usually, if he started a reply, the SQUIP would forcefully cut him off before anyone could notice, either with a shock or simply blocking his vocal cords, although it seemed to prefer the former. But now it was gone, and Jeremy didn't have that filter anymore.)

Jeremy sees Jake enter, taking his seat in the second row, behind Chloe. Jake props his crutches up against the table. Jeremy feels sick.

( **Oh, Jeremy** , it had said, taunting him, after Jake threw his crutches on the ground, walking on his broken legs. **Look what you're making me make him do.** )

The bell rings for class to begin, and a substitute teacher enters the room. Jeremy feels lucky – a substitute won't force him to do his make-up work. The sub passes out some worksheets with the word REVIEW in bold letters on the top, and Jeremy feels downright blessed. He'd at least paid attention in science, his SQUIP had made him help Brooke with her homework, and science was a lot easier to bullshit than algebra. There was no problem-solving in biology, just memorization.  He liked that.

And it helps that he's got Michael "I took AP Environmental Science sophomore year" Mell sitting right next to him.

Michael lightly nudges his shoulder. "Number seven is C," he says. "You weren't here when we went over that."

"C," Jeremy repeats, circling the answer.

**Your GPA, before you had me.**

"And eight is D." Michael points at it on his sheet.

**Your future, at this rate.**

"And—uh…" Michael trails off, looking at Jeremy with concerned eyes.

(Michael can always tell when something's wrong. He was the first person to find out that Jeremy's SQUIP hadn't stayed silent. Michael can read every little micro-expression on his face. The consequences of twelve years of friendship, he supposes.)

"What did it say?" He sounds angry, but not at Jeremy.

"Same—uh—same shit. It's calling me stupid, which, I mean—It's not _wrong_ , I'm—"

"Jeremy, you're not stupid."

**Aren't you?**

"I failed my algebra test," Jeremy explains. "I didn't—I was already shitty at math, _before_ , and now I haven't even paid attention for _months_ , and Gretch made me take it even though I just got back, and I—I had no—I didn't know _anything_ —And I did the homework you brought me, but it just didn't help, and even when I almost got somewhere with it, it—" he taps on his temple "— _it_ kept distracting me."

"That's not your fault, man," Michael assures.

That's something Jeremy's heard a lot, after the play. Constant reassurances of "not your fault, _not your fault_." Mostly from Michael, sometimes from Christine. Mostly about the play, sometimes about little things. Like forgetting something. Like zoning out because the SQUIP's making some comment. Like failing a test. He doesn't know how much he can believe them.

"It was that stupid computer, _it_ fucked you up." Michael thought over what he said, and started again. "I don't mean— _You're_ not fucked up, what it did to you was. You're not stupid, it's trying to make you think you are."

"No, I understand what you mean. It did fuck me up. A lot."

**You've always been fucked up. The only time in your life where you weren't was when I was helping you.**

The impact of that comment must have been visible on Jeremy's face, as Michael looks downright worried.

Michael puts a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know what it just said, but Jeremy. It's _lying_."

"I—"

**You know it's the truth, Jeremy.**

Jeremy takes a slow, shaky breath, brushes Michael's hand off of him, and turns back to his paper.

"What's—uh—What's number nine?"

"A," Michael answers shortly. "What did it say?"

"I don't wanna talk about it right now."

"Miah—"

"Michael." Jeremy can't bring himself to look at him. "I _don't_ wanna talk about it right now."

It’s not like he’s angry at Michael for asking — he has every right to. Jeremy’s SQUIP made Jeremy cut Michael out of his life — for all he knows, it could be trying to do that again.

(It’s still fresh in his mind, the way Jeremy felt when he made the decision. He felt so justified — his life had been _so_ shitty before, of course he should “upgrade.” He deserved it, after the hand he’d been dealt. It was only fair. Michael just didn’t get it; Michael didn’t care about being popular; Michael's parents were stable; Michael didn’t have to worry about getting attacked by Rich in the hall; Michael didn’t understand what he was going through — how much he _needed_ it. So he agreed.)

( **Sever your ties** , it had told him. **Or you’ll both drown.** How stupid that sounded in hindsight.)

“Tonight, then,” Michael tells him.

Jeremy blinks. “What?”

“We can talk about it tonight.”

“T—tonight,” Jeremy repeats. “ _Tonight_?”

“I’m coming over, remember?”

He didn’t, until just now, but he brushes it off. “Right, yeah.” He gives him the same rehearsed smile he’d gotten himself used to. “Tonight.”

“You, me, and some AOTD.” Michael smiles back at him, and it’s genuine.

**Is it?**

Jeremy missed that smile. He’s happy to see it again. He’s happy to see Michael again.

(“You won’t be, once you hear what I found out,” Michael had told him, in the bathroom at Jake’s Halloween party. “About the…” He tapped on his temple. The establishment of a trend.)

(He remembered being so angry — so _livid_ that Michael would imply the SQUIP was a bad idea. The SQUIP had made everything better. He'd had friends— _plural_! A girlfriend! What could possibly be so bad about it?)

(Sure, it did shock him whenever he slouched, or stuttered, or thought wrong, but that was necessary. That was good for him, to kick those terrible habits. He _needed_ it. He’d never want to get rid of it.)

(He’d never wanted to get rid of it, until the play. Only when Christine had talked some sense into him, made him realize the plan was a bad idea – something out of a horror film. Only when it forced itself into everyone's minds – which it was going to do anyway – Jeremy had _agreed_ to it, before. **Only when things got too real for you. Only then were you too much of a coward to finish what you started.** )

\---

Jeremy rides home with Michael that day. His dad’s not home from work yet, so the two of them have two hours of blissfully private “bro-time.” Jeremy's grateful for it. He needs to make up two months of lost time with his former former-best-friend, and he'd rather do it without his dad awkwardly intruding every couple of minutes.

Jeremy unlocks and opens the door, walking in with Michael close behind. He tosses his backpack on the couch and starts up the stairs to his room.

“I’m gonna get a drink!” Michael calls up. “You want anything?”

“Just water,” Jeremy says back, on reflex.

(“Just water” was always the answer. At any restaurant, any event. The SQUIP didn’t let Jeremy drink soda.)

He stops on the stairs. “Actually, wait—”

( **Sugary beverages will worsen your acne.** )

“—I want a Pepsi.”

**No you don’t.**

“I'm gonna have a Pepsi!” Jeremy repeats enthusiastically.

“Yeah, Pepsi!” Michael matches the enthusiasm, although Jeremy can tell he's making fun of him. But Michael's mocking him in that loving way that Michael always does, and it makes Jeremy smile.

And Jeremy enters his room, goes to his closet. He digs through a plastic storage bin filled with assorted odds and ends – a faded David Bowie t-shirt, some "borrowed" Spider-Man comics, Magic the Gathering cards, and, most importantly, his Super Nintendo, all bundled up in its wires with two controllers resting on top.

(The SQUIP had told him to get them out of sight, after Jeremy had decided to “upgrade.” **Any links to Jeremy 1.0** , it had said, **need to go. _Now_.**)

He picks up the Super Nintendo, untangling the wires and tossing the controlled on his bed. He brushes the dust off.

(It had wanted Jeremy to simply throw it all away, considering he **won’t need that garbage anymore** , and his **pointless sentimentality** would **only impede improvement**. But he couldn’t bring himself to go through with it, and with much argument, it eventually let him just throw them in an old bin, lock them in the back of his closet, and **never think about them again**.)

He sets the console on the floor, plugs it into the TV. White to white, yellow to yellow, red to red.

(Most of the other stuff was Michael’s, at some point. The SQUIP made sure that anything of Michael’s was the first to go. Anything that had _anything_ to do with Michael, even indirectly. A shirt he’d left during a sleepover. Some comics that Jeremy had taken and forgotten to read. A Polaroid photo of the two of them together at New York Comic Con. Another of them at some outdoor concert for a band Jeremy couldn’t recall the name of.)

He plugs the controllers in, and Michael enters.

“All set up?” he asks, sitting down on Jeremy’s bed and taking a small sip of his own soda: a Cherry Coke.

Jeremy hums in confirmation. He goes to the bed. He hands Michael the controller. Michael hands him a can of Pepsi.

Jeremy feels the cold metal on his palm, its cool condensation on his skin. He struggles a bit to open the tab, and feels an indescribable satisfaction hearing the fizz once he manages it. It's weird, he thinks, that this is such a big deal to him. It's just a soda. But, then again, soda was what had gotten him into and out of the mess with his SQUIP, so who was he to judge?

He puts the can to his lips. It's been so long that he's practically forgotten what it tastes like. He takes a sip and—

"Ugh, _fuck_!" He jerks the can away from his face. It's _disgusting_ , he gags on its sickly-sweet taste. He covers his mouth and forces himself to swallow it.

Michael puts the controller down, places a supportive hand on Jeremy's back. "Are you okay, what happened?"

"It feels like I just poured a bag of sugar into my mouth…"

Michael lets out a small, awkward chuckle. "Yeah, it's Pepsi."

Jeremy lets out a sigh, and opens his mouth to explain himself, but feels a strange ice-cold pressure on his stomach.

" _Shit!_ " he mutters through gritted teeth. There's a large wet brown spot on his jacket now, right under the smiling patch. He doesn't know what to do, he's expecting some kind of shock, or condemnation, or some other kind of punishment. "Sorry!" he apologizes reflexively, to Michael. "I'm sorry, I—I—I—I didn't mean to."

"Hey it's fine," Michael assures. "It's just Pepsi, man. It'll wash out."

"I—"

(A similar event had occurred at one point, between Eminem's death and the Halloween Party. Jeremy had been doing the dishes. He had dropped a plate.)

**Such a mess.**

(It had shattered on impact with the tile. Jeremy went to go clean it up, but was met with a zap from his SQUIP. **Look what you did** , it had said. **You're lucky no one was here to see that. You can't make careless mistakes like that if you want your situation to improve.** )

**It fits you, though.**

(Jeremy had nodded, and moved again to get a dustpan. And, again, the SQUIP stopped him with a shock to the back. **Pick it up yourself.** _What?_ **A learning experience. It'll help you understand the consequences of your actions. Consider the plate a metaphor.** **If you _fail_** **a social encounter, you will _shatter_ your interpersonal relationships. Like dropping a plate.**)

"—I'm s—s—sorry."

( _But it was just an accident. It won't happen again, I promise._ )

He's not sure if he's apologizing to Michael.

(It had ignored him. **If you shatter your interpersonal relationships, then you will be forced to deal with the fallout. Pick up the pieces, as it is.** It had read Jeremy's thoughts before he even had them, continuing. **And, if you cut yourself on one of the pieces, consider that another failure. An expression of how your failures will hurt you.** )

(It took about twenty minutes for Jeremy to pick all of the plate's remains out of the kitchen rug. He'd ended up with a small slash in his palm from one of the larger bits, and another on his finger from a small shard, and both stung like a motherfucker. He's almost certain that was what the SQUIP had really wanted out of the "lesson." Jeremy never dropped another plate.)

"Jere, we can wash it," Michael says softly, taking the can from Jeremy's hand. "It's okay. Just take the jacket off, I'll grab some napkins."

Jeremy nods, and removes the jacket immediately, tossing it on the bed.

**That's something you're good at. Following instructions.**

Michael grabs a box of tissues from Jeremy's desk and goes back up to him. He sees the look on Jeremy's face and frowns. "What did it say?"

"It—" Jeremy shakes his head. _It doesn't matter what it said._ He pulls two tissues from the box, presses them on his shirt. "It didn't let me drink s—soda, when I had it. Said it was bad for my—my acne, so I haven't really had a Pepsi since then. I guess I just forgot what it tasted like."

"You haven't had any soda in two months?"

Jeremy nods.

"What _did_ it let you drink?"

"W—Water," Jeremy admits. "That's—uh—That was it. Just water. I was ' _allowed_ ' to drink coffee, but I don't like coffee, so, like—uh—Just water, that's all."

"No wonder it's too sweet for you," Michael reasons. "There's probably more sugar in that one can than you've had _at all_ since you got it."

Jeremy's not sure what to say to that, so he just says, "Oh." He stands up and goes to throw away the Pepsi-saturated tissues.

Michael picks up the jacket. "I'll go put this in the—" He abruptly cuts off, silent.

( _Optic Nerve Blocking: On._ )

Jeremy feels his chest get tight, turns around instantly, and feels relaxed to see Michael still there. Michael's anxious expression makes him tense back up, however.

"Turn back around?" Michael requests, voice wavering slightly.

"Why?" Jeremy asks, but does it anyway. He hears Michael's footsteps approach him.

Michael's right behind him now; his hand lightly brushes the skin above the collar of Jeremy's shirt. "There's something on your neck."

**Oh, this should be _interesting_.**

"What do you mean?" Jeremy says loudly without thinking, looking up. He feels Michael's hand tense up at the outburst. "It—" he taps on his temple "—just said, _'This should be interesting._ ' Wh—What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?"

Michael is silent for a few seconds, then he sighs, moves his hand back. "You're probably gonna want to take a look at this."

Jeremy's voice shivers. "What's on my neck, Michael?"

"These—These marks, like the ones on your wrist, but—"

( _Did you just shock me?_ )

Jeremy's thoughts finish it for it. _Like the ones on your wrist, but worse._

( **Spinal stimulation** , it had said. **You were slouching.** )

Jeremy's hand hovers to his neck.

(It was only so discreet about it the first few times. After that, however...)

The marks aren't raised; he can't feel them. He's not sure how far down they would go.

( _Zap._ **Stop fidgeting.** )

"I d—don't—I can't feel them, I—"

( _Zap._ **Stop stuttering.** )

"Michael, I—"

( _Zap._ **Stop thinking about Michael.** )

He feels Michael's hand touching his, leading it away from his back. He hears Michael's phone camera go off.

Michael puts a hand on his shoulder, lightly turning Jeremy towards him. He holds out his phone, saying, "It's not _that_ bad, but I don't know."

Jeremy takes the device, stares at the picture wordlessly. Michael was right, it did resemble the scars on his wrist, but these were more spread out, and lighter along the ends. And they definitely went below his shirt.

"I—I think I should…" Jeremy feels his hand reach down to the hem of his shirt.

Michael gets the message, taking back his phone. Jeremy pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the back of his desk chair. He looks at Michael, and Michael nods.

He turns around, and Michael lets out a sharp gasp.

"I—" Michael pauses, letting out a breath. "Holy shit." He runs his fingers over the base of Jeremy's spine, up until he reaches the bottom of Jeremy's binder. He's tense. They both are.

"How—How bad is it?" Jeremy asks.

"It's—I'm not gonna lie, they're pretty bad." There's another camera click; he hands Jeremy the phone.

Jeremy feels himself pale looking at the image. Jagged, branching scars cover his entire spine, some reaching out to a few inches across his back. The discoloration is minor in the middle and top, only a few shades off from his regular skin tone, but the rest stand out further in a stark fleshy pink. He recognizes the darker spots, where most branches seem to originate. The base of his neck, between his shoulders, and the base of his spine, just above his waist. He can feel the phantom pain of the SQUIP's reprimands just by looking at them.

( _Zap._ **Listen to me.** _Zap._ **That wasn't a request.** _Zap._ **Pay attention.** )

"I need to sit down." Jeremy stumbles over to his bed, dropping onto it, laying on his side with his legs curled up and his feet dangling over the edge. He lets out a long, shaky sigh, rubs at his face. He thinks he might cry, but he doesn't know if he even can. He doesn't even feel sad, really. He feels sick, angry even. How long has he had those scars, he wonders? How long did the SQUIP hide them from him?

Michael sits down next to him, and things are quiet for a while before he speaks again.

"Hey, Jere, uh." He stops hesitantly, waits a moment, then keeps going. "What happened?"

Jeremy feels his chest constrict as he's hit with the realization: He never told Michael about the SQUIP shocking him.

"You don't have to tell me," Michael continues, voice soft. "If it's not something you wanna talk about, I get it, just..."

(Jeremy had grown wary of it, at a point. Nervous around it. Who could blame him? Every time he'd make a mistake, it was always there, waiting. Just a tilt of its gaze, a twitch of its holographic finger, and a physical reminder of Jeremy's failure would strike him.)

**I never did anything to you that you didn't deserve.**

(So, at a point, Jeremy stopped making mistakes. He listened to the SQUIP, controlled his stutter, stopped tapping on desks and tugging at his clothes. He never dropped another plate; he never said the wrong thing; he never wanted to masturbate; he never touched the box in his closet. He was perfect, by the SQUIP's definition. And he was happy. Not having to deal with the SQUIP's punishments anymore was _freeing_. Who cared if there was always an anxious pit in his stomach, the constant threat lingering in the back of his mind – he was _fine_. Until the Halloween party, at least. When everything started going to shit.)

Jeremy takes a breath. "It called it ' _spinal stimulation_ ,' at first," he explains. "Started doing it to get me to stop slouching. It'd give me a little—a little shock to get me to stand up straight. Nothing that—uh— _that_ bad, not like the play…" He feels his hand go to his wrist, the lack of sleeve completely exposing the jagged pink marks on his forearm.

"Jeremy, that's _terrible_."

"That was just how it started out." He pushes himself upright, sitting cross-legged in the bed, his knee brushing against Michael's thigh. "After a bit, it started shocking me a—a lot. Whenever I'd do something it didn't like. Like stutter, or make stupid mistakes like dropping shit or running into stuff, or—or think about jerking off or stupid nerdy shit or you—" Jeremy cuts himself off, feeling his breath catch in his throat. He looks at Michael, expression taut.

Michael plays it off, letting out a fake laugh. "Surprised I'm not included in ' _nerdy shit._ '"

Jeremy forces out a small chuckle as well, and continues. "It—At some point it started to just shock me to get me to pay attention to it. Before that, at least, it always had, like, a good reason."

"Thinking about jerking off is not a good reason to _torture_ you, Jeremy."

"It—It wasn't t— _torturing_ me, it was…" Jeremy feels his argument die in his throat; he knows Michael's right. "Okay, maybe it was."

He's not sure why he feels the need to defend it. He _knows_ what it did to him was fucked up. Maybe he wants to justify his decision to keep it for so long. Maybe he's still used to having to justify it to himself.

"It would do it whenever I disobeyed it, or did something it didn't like." Jeremy rubs the back of his neck. "It didn't—It didn't hurt that much, though. It was, like—"

"A psychological thing," Michael finishes for him. "Trying to fucking condition you into listening to it. Pavlovian bullshit." He removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Every bit of new information I find out about that stupid thing makes me hate it more."

Jeremy nods in response. He huffs out a short, hollow laugh. "But, hey, it's a good reminder to not try to cheat at life."

There's a pause, dead silence.

Michael's voice is tense. "Jere…" His hand finds its way onto Jeremy's shoulder. "Look, what—what you did when you had the SQUIP was… It was messed up. We both know that. But, Miah, that doesn't mean you deserve any of this. It manipulated you."

"I _let_ it—I let things get too out of control." Jeremy runs a hand through his hair. "If I'd just listened to you on Halloween, things would've been fine."

"Jeremy, _it was manipulating you_ ," Michael repeats. "You didn't ' _let_ ' anything happen. It wasn't your fault. And even if it was, you still don't deserve to get _electrocuted_ for it."

Maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, Jeremy already knows that. But that doesn't shake the feeling that Michael's wrong. That he deserves all of it, and more. That he earned the scars on his back.

But Michael puts his arm around Jeremy's shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. "You deserve to be happy, Miah."

For a moment, as he lets himself collapse into Michael, feeling his head fall into his best friend's lap, he relaxes. His mind wanders to the question of how he was going to explain the scars to Christine, to his dad, but he doesn’t worry over it. Michael fingers wind themselves in Jeremy's hair. Jeremy revels in the closeness of it all. That was what he missed most about Michael: someone he could be _close_ to, and not in a romantic sort of way.

"I deserve to be happy," Jeremy repeats. For a moment, he thinks he can believe it.

**You'll never be happy.**

"I deserve to be happy."

For a moment, he knows he can believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading !! i hope you enjoyed, and make sure to kudos and comment if you did !!


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